Falling Star
by cmaddict
Summary: A freak accident sends Don back in time, and he soon finds himself trapped in a world of jazz clubs, Tommy guns and gangsters. His problem? Absolutely no way out except by solving a dangerous mystery of smuggling, blackmail and murder. MS, DL, etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Dedication:** For Lily, in fulfillment of a promise I made to her nearly a year ago. Sorry it's so late. Thanks for all your help and encouragement while writing this story.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the recognized characters in this story. All others are my own creation.

I'm experimenting with a new style and subject matter in this story, so I hope you enjoy it. I've been absent for a while, but it's always a joy to return to my favorite fandom. And I particularly love writing in Don's voice.

As always, reviews are appreciated and welcomed! Please leave one!

**Chapter 1**

"Stop! NYPD!"

Cold November wind swirled around me as I sprinted after the murder suspect, dodging pedestrians and random objects he flung in my direction. "Figures," I muttered to myself as the guy stepped on the gas. They always run. Even when it's not in their best interest, they run. And it's never in their best interest to run.

Stupid criminals. They'll never learn. I guess that's why they're criminals. I've met quite a few in my decade on the job, and though there might be some clever criminals, they never quite get the running thing.

Willing my long legs to move faster, I risked a glance behind me. Danny hustled after me, huffing and puffing, his face red and his glasses slightly askew. Somewhere back there I heard a screech of rubber meeting road at speeds that would rival the speed of sound. This time, I didn't even bother looking back. I knew who it was: Mac and Stella, racing down Broadway in their Avalanche from where they'd been sitting about a block from the suspect's apartment. My back-up was on the way.

Shoving a hapless pedestrian out of the way and ignoring his shouted "Hey!" I sped up, gaining on the quick but shorter Yanni Suh. The thirty-five-year-old businessman was in pretty good shape for having sat behind a desk for most of his adult life. We'd been running now for the better part of half a mile and I knew he had to be getting tired. I certainly was. It was bitterly cold and damp; with every breath I took, my lungs burned. But I pushed on. He wasn't about to get the best of ol' Don Flack.

Suddenly he took a sharp turn into another alley. Skidding around the corner, I came to a sudden halt. It was a dead end. The only thing in front of me was a tall, brick building, laundry hanging off the clotheslines stretched over the concrete, waving in the stiff northern wind like multi-colored banners. Two other brick buildings, most likely apartments, framed the alley, fire escape landings and potted plants the only things in sight.

No sign of Suh.

Thunder rumbled loudly above me, and I rolled my eyes as I drew my weapon. Of course it _would_ rain right as I was chasing down a man who'd brutally murdered his business partner, a young woman of about twenty-eight, her entire life before her. I knew the minute we were called to that scene that I would never get that sight out of my mind's eye. Truthfully, I'd seen it before: blood spatter painting the carpet and walls, shattered glass littering the floor, unseeing eyes frozen in a macabre death mask. But those unseeing eyes were a deep, dark brown, matching chestnut hair fanning out in a puddle of congealing scarlet.

Jessica's death came rushing back to me. She'd been gone for nearly a year, and I'd tried my best to stamp down the pain her murder had brought on me. But when you lose someone you care about, it never quite goes away, no matter how hard you try. And I'd cared very deeply for her.

It had taken nearly two weeks, but we had finally garnered enough evidence, built on forensics and eyewitness statements, to arrest Suh. He was a man who had forged a career from the ground up on nothing but deceit and threats of bodily harm. Yanni Suh was a tough man, raised on the streets of L.A., and he was a cruel man. I'd talked to the ADA assigned to prosecute his case; turned out that the District Attorney's office had been trying for months to build a case against him for racketeering. This had been the first murder he'd committed himself, rather than having one of his hired musclemen do it for him.

As far as I was concerned, it just meant we could finally yank him off the street like the dog he was.

A sudden noise jolted me from my thoughts. My Glock came up instinctually as I spun around, fully alert now. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. Suh had panicked when Danny and I dropped by his office to talk to him after finding the hair he'd neglected to remove from his partner's body. And I was pretty sure he was armed; I'd caught a glimpse of something that looked like the butt of a gun sticking out of his pants as we ran. He'd had nowhere to go; he certainly hadn't gotten past me.

Where the hell was Danny?

Another clatter sounded from in front of me. My eyes trained on a pile of garbage to my right, my finger tightened on the trigger. And just as I was about to fire, I heard a soft _mew_. Lowering my gun, I glared at the oversized, orange tabby making a mad dash across the alley and into the dumpster nearby. "Stupid cat," I mumbled, irritated at myself for being so jumpy. Another rumbled of thunder rolled above me, and a cold raindrop splashed on my black jacket. I swore again, lowering my weapon. I'm a cop, for crying out loud. I don't jump at dumb noises in alleys.

At least, so I thought, until I heard another noise behind me. I started to whirl around…

Too late.

I felt then heard the crack on the crown of my skull. Pain shot through my head, and I literally saw stars. Concrete rushed up to me, and numbness raced through my left hand as I crashed to the ground. My vision swimming before my eyes, I barely made out my gun skittering off down the alley and out of sight. Just as the darkness began to overtake me, I heard Suh say in the most derisive sneer he could muster, "Nighty-night, Detective."

And then there was nothing but black.

* * *

Floating.

Not falling. Floating.

It was the strangest feeling I'd ever had, the strangest concussion I'd ever experienced (and having played some basketball in high school, I'd experienced my fair share). It was like my body was suspended between two worlds. My arms and legs were heavy, like they had been laden with twenty-pound weights. At the same time, I felt as light as a feather, drifting back and forth in the wind like an autumn leaf. Stars whirled around my head like they did in cartoons, and for a brief moment I considered laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

But the moment I felt something sticky dripping down the back of my neck, the urge to laugh fled.

Have you ever heard that, when you're dying, your life flashes before your eyes? I wasn't dying – at least, I didn't think so at the time – and yet, I saw everything so very clearly. My mom. My insane fourth grade teacher. High school. My first girlfriend. The police academy. My mentor. My first ride-along. Samantha. My dad. The lab rats. Jessica.

Jessica's face lingered the longest, hazy, like a television picture without enough signal. But suddenly, she began to materialize before me, tall, lithe, gorgeous, like she'd always been. Her long, dark hair fell softly to her shoulders, curling in gentle waves. Brown eyes sparkled like the stars still spinning around my head, and a grin passed over her beautiful features. "Wake up, Don," she whispered.

My chest constricted painfully. My God, she looked just as she had the first time we slept together. The morning light had fingered its way between the drapes in my bedroom. She had draped her arm across my chest and pressed her lips to my cheek before sliding them across to my ear and murmuring the dirtiest things I'd ever heard. I knew then that I loved her. Completely, totally and irreversibly loved her.

Something cold and wet splashed onto my face. Was it a tear?

"Jess," I mumbled, straining to touch her, but my arms were so heavy. My muscles refused to move, as if an elephant was sitting on them. Every fiber of my being ached to reach for her, to stroke her face one last time. "Jess, please…"

"Don," she smiled softly, reaching out her hand to touch my face. I could feel it as if she were really there, even though the rational, non-concussed side of my mind knew that was entirely impossible; she was in a coffin six feet underground in a cemetery in Brooklyn. But oh, how her eyes sparked that feeling she always had deep within my chest. "Don, you have to wake up."

"I… I…" Honestly, waking up was the last thing I wanted to do, if it meant she'd leave me again. And my arms and legs still felt as gravity had magnified a hundred-fold.

Her smile widening, she shook her head, sending her curls tumbling gently over her shoulders. "I can't stay, Don. Open your eyes. Wake up."

"Please…" I'm not a man to beg, but this was Jess, for crying out loud. The thought of her vanishing again was like a shiv straight through my heart. "Please… I can't…"

She chuckled amusedly and reached out a hand to shake my shoulder. "Mister, wake up!"

_Mister?_ Why the hell would she call me "mister"?

And, just as quickly as the weight had been added to my extremities, it vanished. My body felt as light as a feather. Another icy drop splashed on my forehead, followed by another and another. Jessica's face dissipated, replaced by a steadily growing light on the other side of my eyelids.

Groaning at the pounding in my head, I slowly managed to open one eye and blinked at the sudden brightness of a street lamp in the alleyway. Narrowing my eyes, I focused on the sky above me; it was a deep black. The concrete was cold under my body, and icy rain dripped into my face. I groaned again, lifting a hand to wipe the water from my forehead. I must have been out for hours.

Where the hell were Danny, Mac and Stella? Surely they would've found me by now.

"You okay, mister?"

There was the voice again, but this time it was the small, child-like, high-pitched tones of a boy not yet through puberty, completely unlike the usual dulcet tones in which she always spoke. Blinking open the other eye, my vision sluggishly focused on a young face peering down at me. A shock of red hair peeked out from under a dark newspaper-boy's cap, and freckles danced across a concerned face as the boy of about ten wrinkled his nose. "You feelin' all right?" he asked again.

I groaned again as another flash of pain shot through my skull. "I think so. You didn't see a guy run out of here, did you? Short guy, dark hair?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Sorry, mister."

The boy straightened and put his hands on his hips in the defiant manner that only a child could muster. His green eyes narrowed at me suspiciously, and he wrinkled his nose again, sending waves of freckles crashing across his face. "What happened to you?"

I glared at him. "You sure are nosy."

"You sure are weird," he shot back, and this time it brought a slight, albeit pained, smile to my face.

"I hit my head."

"On what?"

Again I glared at him. "On the other guy's crowbar."

My sharp comment didn't faze him one iota. "Why are you dressed so funny?"

I looked down at my filthy suit, and again I groaned. It would cost a fortune to get dry-cleaned. "Me?" I retorted. "You're the one who's dressed funny. What kind of outfit is that?" I gestured to his ripped, black trousers, the hems of which hovered over his ankles. "Why aren't you at home doing homework or something?"

He laughed, a merry sound despite my growing irritation at the cold rainwater dripping down the back of my neck and the incessant questions coming from this little boy. "You're funny, mister."

I failed to see the humor in that. "Thanks, I guess," I replied dryly as I tried to sit up. The alley whirled around my head and the boy's face blurred. I'd had my bell rung many times, but never quite so much as to induce visions and ghosts.

"Sure you're okay?"

"Maybe. Give me a second." I touched the lump on the back of my head and winced. Suh had definitely gotten me good. Briefly I wondered why Danny wasn't in the alley with me and dismissed the thought. I'd give him a hard time later. I shook my head slightly, trying to clear the last of the cobwebs from my mind and my vision before I attempted getting up.

"Sure is taking you long enough," the boy commented snidely. I simply glared at him again, and he giggled. "You're really funny."

"Yeah, so you told me." I took a moment to glance around the alley. For a moment it looked like the same alley I'd chased Suh into, but something was off. Something I couldn't quite place my finger on.

"You really gonna be okay, Mister?"

I looked up at the boy. Now that my vision had cleared, I really noticed for the first time what he was wearing. Black pants covered in patches came down to his knobby ankles, hovering over a pair of worn and scuffed black shoes. The black newspaper boy's cap was pulled down to his eyebrows, and a tan coat covered what he was wearing underneath. Black smudges were interspersed with his freckles. I frowned. This wasn't the dress of a child in the twenty-first century. "I think so," I replied finally.

He nodded. "Good. I gotta get home for supper." He sprinted out of the alley just as I called after him, "Hey, kid!" He didn't stop. Within seconds he had disappeared into the rainy, gray shroud outside the entrance to the alley. I sighed, wiping rain off my forehead and struggling to my feet. Placing my hand on the brick wall to steady myself, I waited for a few seconds until the spinning stopped. Fighting the wave of nausea that suddenly hit me, I took a deep breath and slowly trudged toward the street.

And immediately stopped dead in my tracks.

This wasn't the New York I was accustomed to. In fact, it was nothing like it. Oh, sure, the streets were still packed with people and horns still blared loudly. But gone were the Porsches and pick-ups and sedans and vans. In their places were a host of cars I'd only seen in the antique car shows my dad always dragged me to when I was a kid. I immediately recognized the long, clunky bodies, the prominent headlights, the broad running boards for a passenger to step on while entering the vehicle, the short, white, rubber wheels. These were the cars made famous in all those old movies, like _Casablanca_ or those Alfred Hitchcock classics. They were the Chrysler Imperials, Chevy Coupes, Pontiacs, Buicks, Fords.

And they were everywhere.

"Must be antique car week or something," I murmured to myself. Either that or I was still dreaming. Unable to resist the urge, I pinched myself.

It hurt.

And that was weird. But I'd done it before in dreams, and it hurt. Maybe I was still knocked out in that alley. I'd see myself lying there if I just turned around.

So I did. But I wasn't there.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Something was very, very wrong.

I flipped up the collar of my trench coat and stepped out into the crowded sidewalk. I moved with the throng, heading down 57th Street toward Broadway. Perhaps if I made my way toward the lab, I'd run into something I recognized.

The wind howled between the buildings, lifting the corner of my trench coat and snaking its way down my back. I wrapped it tighter around my body, shivering. The rain had transformed into an icy mist, just enough to soak my hair and face. I glanced at my surroundings; I'd lived here my entire life, but finding something familiar would've certainly brought me comfort.

Suddenly I frowned. Nothing looked familiar. I was halfway to Broadway, and nothing looked like it had earlier that morning. Wasn't an electronics store supposed to be next to that market? And, come to think of it, the open market hadn't been there that morning either. I shook my head. That knob on my skull was doing funny things to my memory.

Actually, I didn't see an electronics store anywhere nearby. And in a city of ten million people with cell phones glued to their ears, there should have been electronics stores everywhere.

Speaking of cell phones, I recalled that mine had been in my pocket when I chased Suh into that alley. I slid my hands into my pockets, only to find them empty. A frantic pat-down of my trench coat confirmed my suspicions, and I groaned. The kid had stolen my cell phone!

Briefly I thought about asking someone to borrow theirs, but suddenly it occurred to me that I didn't see anyone with a cell phone, an odd feat for New York City. And, actually, the ones who were paying an iota of attention to me shot me strange looks, as if I were an alien from another galaxy. My mind whirled with the possibilities – did I have something on my face? Blood? Dirt?

Then it crashed into me like a train going full-tilt. They weren't looking at my face. They were looking at my clothes.

What shocked me more was when I realized that it wasn't even because my clothes were dirty. I stopped and leaned against a dirty, wet wall, taking the time to really study their dress. Every woman who passed me wore hats that almost fully covered their short hair. The men donned fedoras and trench coats. Beneath the open coats, I caught glimpses of double-breasted vests and black ties.

No one in 2012 would dare to wear something like that. Not unless he wanted to get mugged.

What the hell was going on? For half a second, I thought Danny was playing an elaborate practical joke on me, revenge for the prank I pulled on him at Halloween last year.

But something else caught my eye, something far above the dirty, wet streets of New York City.

The skyline was different.

It stopped me in my tracks, and I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, gaping. The first thought that leapt to my mind was that terrorists had taken it out, just like they had destroyed the World Trade Center. 70 Pine Street, the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building looked brand-spankin'-new. The MetLife Tower stood where it had always been standing, but others – the Bank of America Tower, the MetLife Building, and a host of other skyscrapers I'd grown accustomed to seeing on a daily basis – were gone.

What was this? I was never a man to believe in much of the supernatural. Sure, my parents dragged me to church now and then when I was growing up; we were Irish Catholic, so it was expected of us. But I was a detective. I believed in "just the facts, ma'am;" nothing more, nothing less. Logic made sense to me. Now, I saw some things in my decade as an NYPD detective that logic certainly couldn't explain, of course, but this? Was this some kind of alternate reality?

No, I decided. That prospect was far too weird. I was dreaming. I had to be dreaming. Any minute now, Danny would go into that alley and wake me up and drag me to the hospital to get my head examined.

At least, that was what I thought until I happened to glance at a newsstand outside the bodega on the corner.

It wasn't the headline that startled me, the big, bold, block letters reading "Nazis Smash, Loot and Burn Jewish Shops," although that in and of itself was more than a bit of a surprise.

It was the date right above the headline.

November 11, 1938.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews and alerts for the last chapter! I greatly appreciate it. Please continue to review and let me know what you think.

By the way, the headline for the last chapter really was the headline of the _New York Times_ on November 11, 1938. I found an archived copy online.

Since much of this story is about the music of the 1930s as well as the general culture of that era, for the next couple of chapters, I'm going to give you some music recommendations based on the songs I chose to put into my story. There will be quite a few, and some that I don't name outright. But to give it the feel of a 1930s nightclub, I recommend listening to a little big-band swing music while reading this chapter: "Sing Sing Sing" by Benny Goodman (recorded in 1937), "One O'Clock Jump" by Count Basie (1937), and "It Don't Mean a Thing" by Duke Ellington (1932). Enjoy!

**Chapter 2**

_Oh my God_, I thought to myself, gawking dumbfounded at the newsstand. This was ridiculous. Completely and utterly impossible. I couldn't be in the 1930s, just three years before the start of the Second World War. It just couldn't happen.

Could it?

Again I pinched myself, but the world didn't fade into the technologically advanced era I was so accustomed to. No, people kept passing me by, looking at me like I was a foreigner in my gray suit and bright blue tie.

This had to be a dream. Simply had to. There was no other explanation.

Except that I was really stuck in 1938.

I had to figure out a way to get out of there.

The gentle mist became a downpour, soaking me through. I turned up the collar of my heavy trench coat I'd thankfully decided to put on that morning, shivering as the water dripped down the back of my neck. _Okay, then_, I thought. I was on Broadway now. I'd just head north to where the lab was – at least, where the 2012 crime lab that probably wasn't even thought of until at least the 1980s was.

I started walking, rain sloshing up my trousers as the New York sidewalk morphed into one giant puddle. Though I kept my head down to avoid eye-contact with any curious New Yorkers – not that I thought any of those existed, at least, not if New Yorkers in 1938 were any like the ones in 2012 – out of the corner of my eye I studied the people I passed.

They'd had a rough few years, though they looked like they were putting on a good front. Billboards still advertized the latest musical or movie. One even proclaimed _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland the "greatest swash-buckling adventure of our time."

But the men and the women looked weary. Even the children, some of them with dirt streaking their faces like the boy I'd met in the alley, had worn, tired expressions on their tiny faces. I might've slept through history class in high school, but I at least knew that this was smack in the middle of the era of recovery from the stock market crash of 1928 and the Great Depression. High unemployment rates, starving families, gangster activities, the height of Prohibition – they were dark times in the history of the United States. Hell, in the history of the world. I knew that the city had been in the middle of recovery, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered something about a recession in the mid-1930s that spiked unemployment.

From all the clubs and bars open, however, you'd have never guessed it. People were determined to make the best of it. Every bar I passed had that upbeat, big-band music booming loudly, so loud in fact that I thought it was going to break the windows of the joint. It was the kind of stuff my grandpa used to listen to. I liked it all right growing up: Glenn what's-his-name and the Duke and Benny somethin'. For a moment I stopped at the entrance to one of those clubs, just listening, watching the men and women spin around in a lively dance I'd never had the grace or the style to master. I could see why they liked it; with all the gloom of "not hiring" signs and the terrible repair of the city, they needed a distraction.

But the pounding rain on my head brought me out of the trance the music had cast on me, and I trudged on. It felt like I walked for miles before at last I reached Fifty-Sixth Street, where my lab was located. Things were just as different here as they were all over the city: the bodega down the street from the lab was a dress shop, the electronics store was a market and every building façade looked like it hadn't seen forty decades of wear and tear.

I was in another world, one that was entirely different from the New York City I'd grown up in.

Only when I peered through the blinding rain in the direction of the lab did I realize just how true that thought would become.

Instead of the state-of-the-art glass doors and windows and uniformed guard at the front desk, a neon blue sign cut through the downpour like a knife, its fancy script reading "The Blue Star." I halted again, stunned, not even noticing that the rain had gotten heavier. "What the hell is a blue star?" I muttered indignantly. The building itself was made of brick, a single door serving as the only entrance. The glass for the door looked hand-blown, with "The Blue Star" written on it in the same fancy script as the neon sign.

Shaking the rain from my hair, I reached out to pull it open. But something stayed my hand. What would I find when I opened the door? What would I face? Would I see myself, dead on a slab? Would I find my friends; would they have been sucked into this dream that was quickly becoming a nightmare?

There was only one way to find out. _I'm an NYPD detective_, I thought. _I ain't no coward._

Squaring my shoulders, I reached out and yanked open the door.

It certainly looked nothing like the lab.

Instead of beakers and Bunsen burners, I found blue tablecloths and elaborate centerpieces. About twenty-five tables were set up in a U-shape, all facing a good-sized dance floor and a stage with an old microphone in the middle, a grand piano to one side, and about a dozen large, boxy music stands with a bright blue star decorating the center of each one. On the back wall was a huge, fancy bar, liquor bottles lining the glass shelves. The entire room was lit by an impressive chandelier, and on each table was an aesthetic grouping of white candles of various heights.

"We're still closed." The gruff voice from behind startled me, and I jumped. Whirling around, I saw a dark-haired man in his thirties glaring at me, his brown eyes narrowed almost threateningly. He stood about a head shorter than me, but his arms were folded in an expression that brooked no argument.

Nevertheless, I opened my mouth, about to protest, when a familiar voice from the direction of the bar said, "C'mon, Joe. Guy looks like he's half-drowned." I turned to see none other than Sheldon Hawkes step out from behind the bar. He wore a white tuxedo jacket with a black tie and black slacks, but a frown crossed his handsome, dark face. "You know what Mr. Taylor would say if we turned him out in this weather."

The man called Joe rolled his eyes and walked away without saying a word, but not before shooting an incendiary glare in my direction. Something told me he knew he'd lose that discussion, and I grinned to myself. Same old Hawkes. I wondered for a moment if he'd recognize me in this weird dream.

"I'm 'fraid you'll have to forgive ol' Joe Frankel." _Apparently not_, I thought as he gave me a kindly smile. "You know them skin ticklers. Think they run the show."

"A what?" I asked before I could stop myself.

Hawkes gave me a sidelong glance, as if that bit of information was something I should have known. "A drummer. He's the percussionist in Mr. Taylor's band."

"And Mr. Taylor is?"

A wide grin split Hawkes' face. "Why, he's the owner of this fine establishment." The smile faded from his face as he took a closer look at me. "You look 'bout dead on your feet, mister. Want a coffee?"

I looked at him, wiped at a drop that was sliding down my cheek and nodded. He smiled. "Comin' right up." He stepped behind the bar again and got to work, while I traipsed over to one of the plush, blue stools after hanging my trench coat on the coat rack by the door. I slid into the seat with a sigh of relief.

"Long day, mister?" I looked up to see Hawkes smiling sympathetically at me. It was strange hearing him call me "mister" and not "Flack."

I smiled wanly. "Something like that."

He slid me the mug of steaming coffee. "What's your name, mister? You look like someone just dragged in from Hooverville."

_Huh?_ I decided to play it cool. "Just got off the train, actually. And it's Flack. Don Flack." Hawkes laughed a hearty guffaw. I stared at him, even more befuddled. "What?"

"You ain't from 'round here, are you, Mister Flack?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Hooverville used to be all those shacks outside of the city. Giant one in Central Park, actually. For people who ain't got a job. Ain't quite as bad as it used to be. Folks got a place to stay. For the most part." Hawkes placed a little sugar bowl and creamer in front of me. "Me, I'm lucky enough to have one, thanks to the Boss. There ain't many jobs out there for someone like me, 'specially in a club like this."

"Why's that?"

He gave me another look. "Most people ain't inclined to mix the coloreds with the whites, if you know what I mean."

I did. And it made me incredibly uncomfortable.

Hawkes didn't seem to notice. "Mr. Taylor, though, he ain't like that. He's a gentleman. Gave most of us here work when nobody else would take a chance on us. Say, you never did ask me my name, Mr. Flack."

'_Cause I know it already_, but something told me that wouldn't be the brightest thing in the world to say to him. I'd already come to the conclusion that no matter who I met in this alternate reality, I had to play it cool. "Forgive me for my lack of manners. What's your name?"

He beamed. "Sheldon Hawkes, the best bartender this side of the Rocky Mountains."

I grinned and reached out my hand amiably. He looked surprised for a moment and then took it, shaking it with gusto. "Nice to meet you, Sheldon Hawkes," I said sincerely. "And that's quite a bold claim."

"'Cause it's the truth." Another familiar, Brooklyn-tinged baritone spoke up from behind me. I whirled around and nearly laughed aloud. None other than Danny Messer approached us from the direction of the stage. But it definitely wasn't the Danny I knew. Gone were the t-shirts and jeans, the unruly hair and the haphazard beard. This Danny was clean-shaven, and his light brown hair was neatly combed to the side. He also wore a white tuxedo jacket, white dress shirt and black bow tie. In fact, the only things that were the same about this Danny were the accent and the wire-rimmed glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose.

Danny slid into the seat next to me and tossed a newspaper on the bar. "Gimme a glass of hooch, will you, Hawkes?" he asked. Hawkes nodded and busily set to work. Danny turned to me and held out his hand. "Danny Messer, trumpet, first chair."

I shook the proffered hand, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of my situation. "Don Flack. Nice to meet you."

"Still comin' down out there?" He gestured to another drop of water running down my cheek. "I bet you're cold. When Kate gets down here, I'll ask for some dry clothes." At my apparently confused expression, he added by way of clarification, "She's one of the back-up singers. And the Boss's niece. I'd offer you some of mine, but I think you're a little taller than me."

I waved my hand flippantly. "'S okay. Thanks. Worked here long?"

He shrugged. "Since '34. The Boss and his wife started this place from the ground up. Heard about all those clubs up in Harlem, figured folks needed somethin' to keep their minds off a lousy situation." Hawkes slid a glass of whiskey at Danny, who immediately took a sip and grimaced. "Oh, that's smooth." He took another sip and again lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "So now we play the good stuff, the stuff everybody's listening to."

"Which is?"

Danny gave me a strange look. "The Count. Duke. Benny. Glenn. Tommy."

I racked my brain for a moment, knowing those names sounded familiar, and finally came to the conclusion that he was talking about swing music, the same stuff my grandfather used to have me listen to, the jazzy upbeat stuff I heard walking over here. Already a little overwhelmed, I simply nodded. Fortunately Danny didn't seem to notice, taking another sip of his whiskey instead. "Hey, man, got a snipe?"

I just blinked at him until Hawkes handed Danny a cigarette. Danny patted his jacket pockets, finally producing a lighter, and lit the cigarette with practiced ease. I couldn't stop myself. "Aw, you smoke?"

"Who doesn't?" he retorted smartly. "Want one?"

I shook my head. "No, thanks." Danny just shrugged. I, on the other hand, just sat there, stunned. I was in a world where my best friend smoked? And Hawkes, a guy I greatly respected and admired, couldn't get a job because of the color of his skin? I was really beginning to hope that I would wake up, any minute now, and be out of this ridiculous world. Even if it was to just wake up in that alley, I'd take that over a world where my friends were so very different. I wanted the gentle but wise-cracking Danny and the smart-as-a-tack Hawkes back.

Hawkes, who had been drying glasses for the duration of my conversation with Danny, suddenly bent forward, looking at the headlines of the newspaper Danny had tossed on the table. "Them Nazis at it again?" he said, shaking his head.

Danny snorted derisively. "Trashed a bunch of Jew shops."

"I heard Hitler made another speech last night," Hawkes stated as he wiped down the bar.

"Guy's loony, I tell you. Completely insane."

"Too bad we're not involved now." At the looks I got after that remark, I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. "You… You think we shouldn't be?"

Hawkes just shrugged. Danny, on the other hand, nodded emphatically. "Hell yeah. We already saved 'em once once. We got enough problems as it is. Let Europe deal with their own stuff."

Now it was Hawkes' turn to laugh. "Danny, you weren't in the first one."

Danny glowered at the bartender. "'Cause I was sixteen when it ended. Heard enough about it from the Boss, anyway. 'Sides, the Germans aren't going to come over here."

"Maybe not, but the Japanese sure are," I said without thinking. Again, I could've kicked myself for my mouth. Both men gaped at me, surprised. I'd forgotten that Pearl Harbor hadn't happened yet.

"Who says?" Danny asked finally.

"Uh… Nobody. Just a hunch," I quickly replied, taking another long sip of my coffee before they asked me any more questions. Thankfully I was saved by a tall, beautiful woman with caramel hair piled atop her head in a long, slinky, shimmery green evening gown. Matching emerald gloves ran up the length of her long arms, ending at the elbows. When I finally recognized her, I nearly spit my coffee out my nose.

Stella Bonasera put her hand on Danny's shoulder, and the man twisted in his seat. "Danny, Sid's looking for you. Doors open in ten, and Mac wants the band warmed up when people start coming in." Danny nodded, drained his glass and rose. She turned her green eyes on me and smiled that same warm grin I was so used to. It was the first time I felt like I was back in the twenty-first century since I'd gotten here. "Hi, I'm Stella Taylor."

"Aw, you and Mac got married?" I really had to get a handle on my mouth. Her eyebrow quirked, and my face heated.

"You know my husband?"

"Uh, by reputation only." I extended my hand, and she took it in a very ladylike manner. Remembering where I was for the first time all night, I lifted it to my lips. "Don Flack."

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Flack," she replied warmly. "I hope Hawkes is treating you well."

"Absolutely."

"Oh, Stell," Danny piped up, taking a drag of his cigarette, "do you think Kate has anything from her dad's old clothes that would fit Mr. Flack?" He glanced at me. "Got caught in the downpour and got a little soaked."

Stella looked at me for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "She might. Why don't you go ask her? And if you see Lindsay, tell her we need to warm up."

Hawkes wolf-whistled, and Danny glared at him. "Stuff it, pally," Danny muttered, a distinct pink hue tingeing his cheeks. I grinned, gathering from the way things were currently going that Stella was referring to Lindsay Monroe. Some things never changed; Danny still carried a torch for "Montana." Shooting another glare at Hawkes, Danny disappeared into the back. After he'd gone, Stella looked at me, smiling kindly.

"You'll be staying for the show tonight, won't you, Mr. Flack? I think you'll enjoy it. We can offer you some good food and good music, and Hawkes here can rustle you up some good drink."

I smiled. "Thanks, Mrs. Taylor –" I reached for my wallet in my back pocket, about to pull it out when I suddenly stopped in horror. If my clothes hadn't changed, then neither had my money. And I could almost one-hundred-percent guarantee that I didn't carry any bills made before 1938.

"Stella, please," she was saying as I cast my gaze up to her lovely face.

"Stella. But, uh," my face heated with embarrassment, "I don't have any money."

A look of horror spread over her face. "Were you pickpocketed, Mr. Flack?"

I tried to look sheepishly wounded. "Yes, I think so."

"You poor man. I think we can come to some sort of an arrangement." She smiled gently. "If you'll forgive me, I need to finish getting ready. Hawkes, you'll open the door?"

"Yes, ma'am." With another nod at me, she vanished as well. I smiled happily to myself. Stella and Mac were married, and she was still the same classy lady she was seventy years in the future. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

"Don't look now, Mr. Flack," Hawkes whispered conspiratorially in my ear, "but here comes the band."

Sure enough, right then twenty guys walked onto the stage, carrying instruments and chattering animatedly. Joe, the surly percussionist, sat behind his drum set, twirling his sticks between his fingers. Trumpet in hand, Danny was chatting with a red-haired young man who looked vaguely familiar until it hit me that it was none other than Adam Ross. The kid I knew as the awkward tech with the weird crush on Stella was clean-shaven and, like Danny, had his hair cut short and combed neatly to the side. He carried a clarinet and took his seat with another clarinetist in the row behind Danny. Within seconds, as the saxophones, the trombones, the pianist, the guitar and the stand-up bass settled down into their seats, the room was filled with the disharmonic sounds of a band warming up.

"Mr. Flack." Another recognizable voice came from my left. Mac Taylor, carrying a shirt and suit on a hanger, approached me, nodding at Hawkes. He, too, was smartly dressed, but instead of wearing a white dinner jacket, his tuxedo was completely black, down to the bow tie fastened expertly at his neck. His hair was a little longer than normal but still short around the sides, and like all the other men, he had combed it to the side. He offered his hand, and I took it, shaking it heartily. "Mac Taylor."

"I know," I said enthusiastically. He raised an eyebrow, and I quickly stammered, "Uh, I mean, I gathered. Nice to meet you."

"My wife said you got caught in the storm. These clothes may just fit you." He handed them to me with that same deadly serious look I was used to seeing from him. "There's a john in the back you can use to change. You can just leave your clothes there; Hawkes'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Ma—I mean, Mr. Taylor. I appreciate your hospitality."

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "You're very welcome. Anything else you need, you just let me know. I'm not about to turn a man out on the street in this weather."

I smiled. "Thank you." He nodded at me and then glanced at Hawkes. The doc – well, bartender – took out a huge set of keys. I decided that this was my cue. As I disappeared into the bathroom, the excited chatter of several dozen people reached my ears. When I closed the door behind me, a sudden blast from the trumpets signaled the kick-off for the evening, opening with a rousing number in a fast swing beat, to which I was sure people were already dancing.

Once safely inside the bathroom, I peeled off my drenched, modern clothes and began to dress myself. The jacket and shirt fit pretty well, but the pants were a little baggy, so I pulled the belt off my suit and threaded it through the loops on the borrowed trousers. Deciding I'd just have to make do with my drying socks and black loafers, I looked at myself in the mirror to tie the tie that Mac had brought me with the suit – a nice, dark blue tie similar to ones I wore before… Finishing the half-Windsor knot, I sighed. My hair, tinged with gray in recent years, was sticking up on all ends, so I turned on the tap and wet it down, combing it slightly to the side. "Better to not stick out like a sore thumb," I muttered to myself.

Satisfied, I looked at myself again and grinned. I looked sharp. I mean, really sharp. The blue in my tie made my eyes stand out, and the length on the black double-breasted jacket sleeves hit my wrists just right. "'Here's lookin' at you, kid,'" I quoted to my reflection, smirking that trademark Bogey smirk.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Gathering my clothes from the floor, I opened the door and hung them on the line Mac had indicated. The band had finished the first song and was hitting the crescendo of one I actually recognized: "Sing Sing Sing," by Benny Goodman. When I emerged from the back, every table in the joint was packed, and young people were dancing and jiving and spinning all over the wooden dance floor. It was like a wild party; those who weren't dancing were clapping loudly, even hooting when the instruments flawlessly performed what seemed like an impossible run.

I slid my hands into my pockets and leaned against the far corner of the bar, my toe tapping to the beat of the song. Naturally, my practiced eyes roved the room, observing my surroundings with the gaze of a long-time detective. A gray-haired, skinny guy directed the band, waving his baton back and forth with gusto, up on his toes and back down to his heels. In a split-second, he turned around so I could get a glimpse of his hawkish features, and my grin widened. Sid Hammerback as the band leader? This was turning out to be the best concussion ever.

At the back of the room, Hawkes busily worked the bar, pouring shots of whiskey, mugs of beer and glasses of wine with the greatest of ease. Mac, on the other hand, worked the crowd. Looking as smooth as I'd ever seen him, not at all the occasionally reticent lab chief I was used to, Mac hob-nobbed with well-dressed middle-aged ladies and their husbands, directed waiters to tables and smiled and laughed with younger men and women like a guy accustomed to putting on a show.

I smiled to myself at seeing a man who'd been my mentor, one of my closest friends, in a situation that was so out of his normal element yet so in _this_ Mac's element. Rubbing the back of my neck, I looked toward the dark blue curtain separating backstage from the floor.

That was when I saw her.

She was standing with Stella and a woman I immediately recognized as Lindsay, whose short, auburn hair was curled around her ears. Her hair, dark as rich chocolate, fell in a gentle wave to her slender shoulders. Instead of an emerald dress like Stella's, a cream-colored sequined evening gown flowed down her slim frame to the floor. She turned and looked at me, lips as red as blood, eyes a gray-green like the sea after a storm, hair framing a face that looked like it had been fashioned by the fingers of a god.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Hell, my jaw dropped, I was so swept off my feet. And I swear the corner of her mouth turned up slightly as she turned back to Stella and Lindsay, just a little grin that set my heart pounding in time with the beat of the high hat.

She was a dangerous woman; I could sense it. Dangerous in that she could easily wrap me around her little finger and I wouldn't care one jot.

In that moment, I knew I was in big, big, big trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **My sincerest apologies for this chapter taking so long to go up. I'm a teacher and a coach, so I've gone from one athletic season to another very quickly. Therefore, I haven't had much downtime. I'm afraid I've also neglected review replies, but my deepest thanks to the reviewers from the last chapter.

This chapter includes several references to songs of this era. Here are their names, artists and the years in which they were recorded:

"Cheek to Cheek" - Fred Astaire (1935)  
"Goody Goody" - Benny Goodman (1936)  
"Pennies from Heaven" - Bing Crosby (1936)  
"Stardust" - Isham Jones (1931)  
"Marie" - Tommy Dorsey (1937)

Hope you enjoy! Please let me know if you do!

**Chapter 3**

I don't know how long I stood there, gaping at the strange woman in front of me. The music, laughter and chatter had faded into a dull roar. People became fuzzy sticks of color, moving ever so slowly in my waning field of vision. All that existed in that moment was this woman, this… angel? Vision? Figment of my imagination? I didn't know. Frankly, I didn't care.

Even in the midst of my stupor, the thought struck me that I hadn't had this kind of a reaction to a woman since Jessica. And actually, from the back, she looked a little like Jessica: similar hair color (though hers was a gentle wave to the shoulders), tall and slender. She even carried herself in a similar way to Jessica; this woman was very obviously athletic and moved with the easy grace of a cat as she stepped onto the stage with Stella and Lindsay.

There was one major difference: her eyes. Jessica's were a deep, chocolate brown. This woman's were a gray-green, which sparkled with laughter as she readied herself behind the microphone. Finding me in the crowd, her eyes locked with mine, sending my heart once more into a tailspin.

God, it was easy to get lost in those eyes. I'd always been an eye man; they say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and I'd always believed that. As the song, a Tommy Dorsey number led by Danny on the trumpet, began the final chorus, I stared into those eyes, and it was like I was peering into her. As cliché as that sounded – and still sounds – I was catching a glimpse into this beautiful woman.

Such a visceral reaction sent a tidal wave of guilt crashing through me, and I quickly averted my gaze from hers. There had been other women since Jessica; I hadn't exactly stayed celibate over the last three years. But none of them had awakened these feelings in me. None of them had made my heart palpitate like she did.

And I didn't even know who she was!

"Ladies and gentlemen," a familiar voice called exuberantly over the microphone. I lifted my eyes from the floor in time to see Sid standing in the center of the stage, baton tucked under his arm. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose as he continued, "Please welcome the Blue Star's own Stella Taylor!"

Loud applause and a chorus of hoots from the floor greeted Stella as she crossed to Sid, followed closely by the angel and Lindsay, who was dolled up in a cream-colored, sparkling dress that matched what my mystery girl wore. She gave him a warm smile and an embrace before he gestured that the floor was hers. Tearing my eyes away from the stage, I found Mac in the audience. His face was split into a wide, proud grin as he applauded, and I couldn't help but grin too. Here was a man who'd found the woman he loved with everything he had.

Now if only the Mac in 2012 could figure out the same thing.

On cue from Sid, the music began, softly at first as the applause died down, setting the rhythm in an easy swing beat. Gradually it picked up volume, until Stella stepped forward to the mike, wrapping her gloved hands around it like it was about to take off running across the stage. I watched, entranced, as she opened her mouth and began to sing.

"_Heaven, I'm in heaven_

_And my heart beats so I can hardly speak_

_And I seem to find the happiness I seek_

_When we're out dancing together cheek to cheek."_

The words rolled out of her mouth sweet as honey and smooth as silk. My jaw dropped again. Stella was _good_. She had this soft, soothing lilt to her voice as she easily navigated the dynamics of the song I vaguely recognized as one Frank Sinatra had covered nearly twenty years after this time. A fleeting thought sprang to mind that I'd never expected to be grateful to my pops for making me listen to those old records. I had not a clue who the original artist was, but when Lindsay and the mystery girl kicked in with the harmonies, I was sure I'd indeed croaked back in that alley and they were welcoming me to the Pearly Gates. Only angels sounded that good.

"You're enjoying the music, I see, Mr. Flack?" Hawkes' voice from behind me jolted me out of my reverie, and I turned my head a little to meet his grinning gaze. Smiling, I nodded.

"They're very good." I jerked my head toward the stage, my smile growing in appreciation as Stella started scatting in the middle of the chorus.

Hawkes nodded, resting his elbows on the bar next to me. "Stella's one of the best vocalists in New York," he claimed proudly, his grin betraying his undying devotion to the woman. I could understand that. "Mac started this place for her, you know. Not long after Black Tuesday. Can I get you another coffee, Mr. Flack?"

I nodded absently, returning my gaze to the stage while Hawkes fetched some coffee. It certainly didn't surprise me that Mac would have opened this place for Stella. After all, in my world he would do anything in all creation for Stella; why should it be any different here? A gentle tap on my shoulder got my attention, and I turned to see Hawkes with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. I smiled at him in thanks. "Who're the other singers?" I asked, sipping the hot brew.

"Ah, well, the lady with the short, curly hair is Lindsay Monroe." He indicated my old friend with a quick jerk of his head. I bit back the urge to say, "I know." He continued, "She's new to the city. Came from a small town in Montana. Big dreams though. Wants to star on Broadway. I ain't seen so much ambition on a woman, 'cept maybe Stella. And Kate."

"Kate?" I immediately straightened at the name. Danny had mentioned it before, asking about the boss's niece; could she be my mystery woman? "Who's Kate?"

"Why, the young lady next to Lindsay." Hawkes gestured to the dark-haired beauty beside Lindsay. I turned to watch her, unable to tear my eyes from her as she swayed in time with the music.

Kate.

I liked that name. Short, simple. It seemed to fit somehow.

I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. I didn't even know the woman, and here I was making comments about how her name fit her.

Before I could ask Hawkes anything else, however, the music hit a loud final note and the audience clapped and whistled wildly. With a big smile, Sid made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand toward them, and all three bowed in unison. Before the applause could die down, they started up again, a little faster this time, with Adam on clarinet. Those on the dance floor swung their legs back and forth in a crazy dance that could only be the Charleston. I'd heard about it, but I'd never seen it before. Now I was absolutely certain that my life in this time would unequivocally not have been that of a swing dancer.

Adam was good. Really good. He soared through the notes like a pro, hitting every one perfectly, though it took everything within me not to burst out laughing when he started dancing on stage with his clarinet in hand.

"So you met someone who set you back on your heels – goody goody," Stella sang to the hoots of some in the audience who apparently liked this song. I'd never heard of it, personally, but hey. It apparently wasn't one of my Pops' favorites.

"Who is she?" I shouted over the din of the music and the clapping.

"Kate? She's Mr. Mac's niece." Hawkes refilled my coffee cup from the pot until I held up my hand to stop him. "Been living with him and Stella since I've known 'em. Nice girl, real pleasant to be around if you follow me."

I did.

"Always treats everyone real kind," he continued. "Don't know much else 'bout her, though."

That caught my attention. I cast a sharp, sidelong glance in his direction. "Why's that?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. She keeps some stuff to herself. She's pleasant, but there's somethin' about her. Gets sad sometimes. Don't know why."

I frowned, returning my gaze to the gorgeous woman, singing a perfect harmony to Stella's lead, following along beautifully as Stella threw out nonsense word after nonsense word. She certainly didn't look like she was hiding some deep, dark, painful secret. She had a smile on her face. And before I knew it, her eyes found me again, and this time they very definitely sparkled. Maybe it was the latent teenage boy in me, but I was almost sure they sparkled _because _of me.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Sid called, and I jumped. I'd been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed the music had stopped. "We're going to take a short break, but we'll be back in a jiffy!"

In just that amount of time, some music – I think it was a Glenn Miller song, maybe "Moonlight Serenade" or something – came on from a gramophone in the corner. The band cleared off the stage in a hurry; most of them made a beeline for the bar. "Whoops, gotta make tracks," Hawkes said before hastily moving to the other end of the bar. I smiled to myself as he busily set to work fetching drinks for the band members, who all seemed to favor the whiskey more often than not. That was Hawkes, busy as a bee, flitting from place to place to place.

I glanced back toward the stage, hoping to catch another glimpse of Kate, but she had vanished as well. Strangely, I was disappointed. No, not disappointed – that's too light of a word. Dejected, maybe?

Shaking the thought from my head, I sipped my coffee. What right did I have to be disappointed because I didn't see a woman I'd never met? '_Pull yourself together, man,_' I told myself. _'You're acting like a love-sick puppy.'_

"You certainly look drier, Mr. Flack," a voice from beside me said. I turned my head just enough to see Mac, looking much more dapper than usual in his tux, the corner of his mouth tilted in that patented Mac half-smile.

I grinned. "I feel much drier. And please, call me Don."

His blue-gray eyes twinkled in the low light. "Are you enjoying yourself, Don?"

"Very much, thanks," I replied sincerely. "You have a terrific band."

He looked pleased. "They're swell, aren't they? I'm a lucky man."

"You certainly are. This is a great place. And Stella's a fantastic singer."

"Thank you," he replied, looking especially pleased and proud at my last comment. He jerked his head toward Hawkes, who was still pouring drinks right and left. "Hawkes is taking care of you?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. He's pretty terrific too. Definitely lives up to being the best bartender this side of the Rocky Mountains."

Mac laughed heartily. "He told you that, huh? Same line he gives every other Joe that waltzes in here. Helps that it's absolutely true."

I grinned. "It certainly does." Looking past Mac, I spotted Danny and Adam making their way toward us, glasses of whiskey in their hand, Adam passing a cigarette to Danny as they wound through the crowd. Mac followed my gaze, and when they'd joined us, he reached out and shook their hands amiably.

"Good first set, boys," he praised them before turning to me. "Don, you've met Danny and Adam, haven't you?"

"I met Danny earlier, but not Adam." I reached out and shook the young man's hand, biting back a grin. I still couldn't get over Adam as a famous clarinetist. "Don Flack."

"Adam Ross." The guy I'd formerly known as the strangest lab tech in the city smiled his charming, quirky smile at me, his face clean-shaven and his normally spiky hair tamed into a classy comb-over. "You look like you're enjoyin' this here clam-bake."

I nodded, gathering he was talking about the show. "Very much."

"Well, this next set's gonna make you blow your wig. Best part of the show, if I do say so myself."

"Which of course you do," Danny retorted, rolling his eyes at me as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "Adam's got quite the solo coming up next in the set."

The young man grinned. "Best clarinetist east of the Mississippi, if you ask me."

Danny leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "Don't ask him."

I smirked and whispered back, "Seems to be a common thing around here."

Undeterred, Adam continued, "'Course, no one can outplay Benny, 'cept maybe the Duke or the Count. Just like no one can out-sing Billie. 'Cept maybe Stella. Dame's got the pipes to back up her incredibly big…" His ramblings trailed off when he noticed Mac and Danny staring at him, no trace of humor whatsoever on either of their faces. Mac's eyes narrowed at the young man slightly, with that glare I'd seen fell many a criminal. Adam, of course, was no match for it either. He fidgeted and wrung his hands nervously. "I – ah," he stuttered, "I think – ah – I'll go, ah, find a spare reed or something." And without bothering for a reply, he beat a hasty retreat toward the stage.

As soon as he vanished, Danny and I burst into fits of laughter. Even Mac chuckled along with us at Adam's plight. "Poor kid," I finally gasped, my entire body shaking with laughter. Danny and Mac were so amused by it too that they didn't bother to question why I was laughing at a guy I didn't even know. If they had, I certainly couldn't tell them the truth. But it was nice to know that Adam was the same awkward kid he was seventy years in the future.

Still chuckling, Danny took a deep breath. "Oh, it's very well-known that Adam has a huge crush on Stella. Hell, so do half the guys in the band. Careful, Mac," he turned to his boss and downed the rest of his whiskey, "you might have to keep Stella under lock and key."

Mac shrugged nonchalantly. "Why, from Adam? He's harmless."

"I don't know, Mac. When you're dizzy with a dame, ain't no tellin' what you might do."

"You'd know," Mac retorted sharply but goodnaturedly. "Maybe I should talk to Lindsay about keeping _you_ under lock and key."

Danny glowered at his boss and opened his mouth to say something, but Sid's ascent to the stage stopped any further comeback he might've had in mind. "Gotta go," he announced, then he sprinted off toward the stage.

Mac glanced to the other end of the bar. "If you'll excuse me, Don, one of my regulars is over there. Enjoy the second set."

I smiled. "I will; thanks." Following him as he meandered over to where the good-looking older gentleman was sitting in front of Hawkes, I watched as he schmoozed the guy expertly. But just a second after he sat down next to him, the band hit its first note. I looked back toward the stage and was surprised to see Kate in front of the main microphone. Stella had taken Kate's place as a background singer by Lindsay.

"Oh, every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven," Kate sang in a smooth contralto voice that wasn't as seasoned as Stella's, but sent pleasant shivers through me anyway.

"Shoobie-doobie!" the band called with Stella and Lindsay. I grinned. I liked this song, and my toes started tapping really of their own volition.

But within seconds, a young woman of maybe twenty-two sprinted up to me, grabbed my hand and tried to yank me to the dance floor. I protested loudly, but I guess she didn't hear me over the din of the music; she just kept pulling me. Vainly my fingers scrabbled against hers, but nothing would faze her. I was trapped.

Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder; it was Hawkes, standing behind me. "Someone's on the horn for you, Mr. Flack," he shouted, holding two fingers against his ear like a telephone. For a moment, I stared at him blankly, until I saw his right eyelid dip and return, quick as a flash. Oh. _Oh._ I smiled at the girl, flooded with relief, and thanked her but asked to be excused. She nodded and vanished to find another unlucky fellow who didn't have such good friends.

Shaking my head, I returned to the bar with Hawkes. "I owe you big time, friend," I told him with a smile, taking my seat at the end of the bar.

He grinned. "Ain't no thing, Mr. Flack. I could tell dancin' ain't really your style."

"I'm afraid I'm a little rusty at it."

The grin became a smirk, one I'd seen many a time in my friendship with him. "Maybe it takes the right woman to dust that rust off." He nodded indiscreetly at Kate. "Tell me you're at least man enough to introduce yourself to her."

I narrowed my eyes at him in a mock-glare. "Hey, don't worry. I will. Just waiting for the right time."

Hawkes' face became serious suddenly, taking me aback. "Be careful about it. I ain't never seen her with a Joe. Don't know what it's about, but I do know that if some unlucky sap hurts her, Mr. Mac'll kill him no problem. He wasn't in the Army for nothin'."

To say I was surprised would've been an understatement. I found it hard to believe that a girl like that would never date. She was gorgeous, talented. Did it have to do with what Hawkes said about her being sad sometimes?

"All right, folks," Sid said, breaking into my thoughts. I hadn't noticed the song had ended, but Kate was back at her microphone with Lindsay, and Sid was seated in front of the piano. "Let's slow it down a little. Here's 'Stardust.'"

Sid's fingers flew over the black and white keys in a gentle, tender run as the horns came in behind him softly. Stella stepped up to the microphone and sang almost ethereally:

"_And now the purple dusk of twilight time,_

_Steals across the meadows of my heart_

_High up in the sky the little stars climb_

_Always remind me that we're apart."_

I leaned against the bar, enraptured by the soft lilt of her voice. Kate and Lindsay seemed content to let Stella take the reins on this one, standing in the background with gentle smiles on their faces, watching as Stella masterfully moved through the piece. A few dancers took to the floor, dancing cheek to cheek, moving in time with the slow, surreal music.

Just as I thought I'd at last moved into the inner circle of heaven, I heard Hawkes mutter behind me, "What's that pill doin' here?"

'_Huh?'_ I thought, turning around just in time to see Hawkes wave at Mac, who was leaning against a wall watching his wife perform. Once he had Mac's attention, the bartender gestured wildly. I followed his line of sight to the front door, where a trio of men stood scanning the room.

Now I've been a cop a long time. I can tell when a guy's no good; I've had a lot of practice. It's written all over them. Habitual offenders can't cover it up; most of them don't even bother to try.

And these guys were no good.

Two of them stood a little behind the third guy, obviously their leader. They were big, beefy men; their suit material must've been straining with the sheer mass of muscle it had to hold. One had a long scar down the side of his face, running from next to his narrow eyes to the cleft in his chin. The other was a little slimmer but certainly muscular; his eyes glittered beneath his soaking fedora, which he still hadn't bothered to remove (I might not have been raised in this time, but even I know that's considered rude).

But it was the third who really caught my attention. He wore a black pinstriped suit with a bright blue tie, obviously well-made and tailored to his slender frame. His face was narrow but his jaw was firm, and his dark hair was neatly combed. I suppose he may have been considered handsome, were it not for his eyes. The blue orbs glittered with a latent malice simmering just below the surface as if it would burst forth at any moment.

Mac's expression changed as soon as he laid eyes on them, the relaxed visage immediately becoming guarded and suspicious. I'd seen the look before, when we caught Shane Casey and the Compass Killer. He nodded his thanks to Hawkes and went over to them. After saying something to the stranger, he led them toward the back.

Swiftly my glance shifted to Stella, still singing up there on the stage. She continued just as perfectly as she'd been doing, but her eyes followed Mac, and that gaze that was always so easily read told me that she was worried. Very, very worried. And I didn't like that. Not one bit.

"Hawkes," I said in a low voice so the guys next to me wouldn't hear (I don't know why, but something told me this wasn't a conversation for prying ears). "Who's that guy?"

"Trouble," he replied. And that was all I'd get out of him.

Just then, Stella's song ended. Immediately she said something to Sid, who looked at her worriedly but nodded anyway. She grabbed Kate's arm and nearly dragged her off the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," Sid said with gusto, but I watched as his eyes tracked Stella across the room, "I give you the trumpet stylings of Mr. Danny Messer, performing 'Marie' by Mr. Tommy Dorsey!"

The band started up again, but this time I wasn't paying attention. This time, I let my gaze follow both women as they nearly sprinted toward the back, where I'd changed my clothes. I frowned. Something was going on. I'd be a lousy detective if I didn't investigate.

My eyes fixed on where they'd vanished, I made to get up, but a dark hand on my arm stopped me. "You can't go back there, Mr. Flack," Hawkes tried to reason with me. But I'd forgotten where I was for a moment, and as far as I was concerned, this was a friend trying to get in the way of me doing my job.

"The hell I can't," I snapped, and shook off the hand. As I marched toward the back room, I briefly thought about apologizing. But now wasn't the time. I was on a mission.

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum were guarding the curtained entrance to the back room and the bathrooms. Their big, hulking arms were crossed in front of broad chests. They stared at me silently, giant sentries. I grinned at them. "Hey, fellas," I said, entirely friendly. "I just gotta…" I gestured to the back.

They said nothing.

"C'mon, guys, you expect me to go outside or somethin'?" I smiled my most charming smile.

Like stone statues, they stared right back at me.

"Okay." I stepped forward as if I was about to push past them, but a broad hand hit my chest. It felt like I'd just been hit by a freight train.

Suddenly a resounding _crack_ and a soft cry sounded from behind the curtain. Every instinct in me told me to spring into action, but I had a hand the size of Mount Vesuvius still on my chest.

But I didn't have to wait long. The curtain was thrown aside, revealing the man in the pinstripe suit. He looked at me for a minute, flexed his hand and glanced at the other two. "Morris, Hardy," he said softly, then jerked his head toward the door. With a final sneer in my direction, Scarface let me go and trailed after his boss.

I didn't bother to watch them go. I flung the curtain aside and rushed into the back room. Without even a thought in my mind, I threw open the door. Two faces turned sharply to look at me, startled. One belonged to Stella, who had her hand over her mouth, her green eyes wide with horror. The other was Mac's, whose blue gaze was filled with both shock and pain as crimson blood spilled from his battered nose.

The first thing that came out of my mouth was the first thing that came to my mind:

"Damn."


End file.
